Shell Shocked
by Super-Dog11
Summary: Stiles can take the bombardments. He can take killing a man. He can take hiding in the trenches for hours. He can take the rats and animals infestations. He can take crawling over dead bodies. He can take the war on, becoming less and less himself everyday. He cannot, however, take Officer Derek Hale and his damn attitude. Sterek, AU, WWI setting, Trench Warfare


**Warnings: **Blood, gore, warfare, shooting, trench war, death

**Rating: **M

**Definition: **Storm troops/shock troops- soldiers trained or deployed for a sudden and quick assault, usually after bombing.

Shelling/shells- n- an explosive artillery projectile or bomb;-v- bombard by shells

_He said: I have seen the others_

_and I have discovered_

_that this fight is not worth fighting_

_I have seen their mothers_

_and I will no other_

_to follow me where I'm going_

_So, take a shower, shine your shoes_

_You got no time to lose_

_You are young men you must be living_

_Take a shower, shine your shoes_

_You got no time to lose_

_You are young men you must be living_

_Go now you are forgiven_

Stiles pressed hard against the trench's muddy side, screwing his eyes close. The bullets and shells are everywhere, slicing through his comrades. He clutched his rifle closer to his scrawny chest. His ears and eyes were aching. His face was wet and his uniform was colored with unidentifiable stains. People were screaming all around him, guns going off, bombs exploding, a trench wall collapsing in on itself, burying all the soldiers that had ducked for cover. For safety. Nothing was safe anymore. He had learn that the day he'd been put on the front. Put out against a relentless enemy armed with guns and bloodlust and experience. Stiles? Stiles was a lanky, seventeen year old boy with a dork face and buzzed hair. Even now, his helmet was slipping over his eyes and his clothes made him looked like a drowned cat.

An earth shattering explosion knocked Stiles to his butt. Mud and water rained down on him, getting in his nose, eyes, mouth. He coughed and gagged at the warm water in his mouth. He knew it wasn't water. It was too thick, too warm, too fresh to be water. He scrubbed furiously at his eyes, smearing the mud and blood across his forehead.

"Stiles! Stiles!" He snapped his head up, the helmet strap nearly choking him. His friend, Scott, was fetched up against the trench wall, gun cocked and bayonet bloodied. "Get up! They're shelling us!" Stiles needed no more encouragement. With a great effort, he scrambled up, feet and knees sliding in the mud as he slugged over to his friend. Scott caught his shoulder and pulled him close, arm securing and tight.

"Our walls aren't going to hold up much longer! We need to drop back to the other dugout," Scott gasped in his ear, voice strained over the bombardments. Stiles shook his head fiercely. If they left now, they'd be mowed down by the fighting planes and guns. They had to wait for when the shelling stopped and they sent out the storm troopers. They'd have a period of time where they could retreat. He told Scott this and he could tell his friend was troubled.

"Cover!" A voice screamed out above the noise and on instinct, the two boys dropped to the ground, arms around each other as the earth exploded and surged. Everything did out here was instinct. A man raised his blade to stick you, you sliced him first. It was instinct. They weren't humans, men, sensible here. They had become beasts, animals trained to fight like dogs.

"Stiles! We _need _to get out of here!"

"The guns! They'll kill us, Scott! We have to wait!"

"We can't! The bombs are going to drop in the trenches soon! We're sitting ducks out here!"

Stiles chewed on his lip. It was true. The shells were dropping closer and closer each time. Soon, they'd just be a mess mixed in with the earth. Scott was staring at him with his wide brown eyes. He always reminded Stiles of a dog, maybe a German Shepherd. So loyal and fierce but had the eyes of a big softie.

Stiles and Scott stood, arms woven around each other for support. They both were scrambling up the back trench wall when the bombs stopped. They turned and stared into the other's eyes, fear evident.

"Shock troops!"

He could see them. The enemy were running as fast as they could, horses mingled along with the front line. They charged, the line surging. On a wild animal instinct, both Scott and Stiles ripped the grenade from their belts and chucked. The first line went down, bodies dropping and disappearing. But then they were replaced, run over by their comrades. Panic sank in Stiles heart and leapt up over the trench wall, running as fast he could.

He heard Scott running with him, his footsteps squishing in the blood-soaked mud. They had to get back to the dugout. They would be ready, armed with guns and bombs, fire and wire. Stiles heard people behind him crying and screaming. Begging for their moms, for God to take them, for it to be over, for mercy, for peace. That's what they all wanted. Peace is the only thing they understood.

Stiles spotted the trenches and the guns positioned, peeking over the edge. He lifted arms and yelled out their names, showing his uniform so that they wouldn't shoot. Scott grabbed his hand as they both leapt into the trenches. They were confronted by a medal bedazzled Captain, frowning.

"What's the conditions?"

"Storm troops, sir. They shelled us for hours, weakening our front and destroying out trenches before charging. They have rifles and spades, sir. Horses also." The captain nodded, frown deepening. He reached behind and grabbed a boy with curly blond hair and wide blue eyes. His uniform was that of a messenger.

"Tell the soldiers to prepare for confrontation. Pass out gas-masks, get the fire ready, blades and spades out. Go. Go!" The boy met Stiles' eyes for a moment, terrified. He looked no older than Stiles was. He then turned, and took off, surprising Stiles with how fast he ran in such little time. "Here, take these." The captain handed them a spade and a rifle, tipped with a blade. "Get ready."

Stiles and Scott pressed hard against the trench wall. To Stiles' left there was a dark-skinned boy, probably a freed slave, his hands gripping his gun tightly. He looked up and met Stiles' eyes, expression emotionless. The only thing Stiles could think to do was reach out a hand, touch the boy's whitened knuckles and smile slightly. It wasn't much, but in the trenches, a little went a long way.

"Dead ahead!" Stiles saw them. There was less now, many had been killed off at the front line. But they were still running, horses charging and rearing, men much like animals themselves. They had to keep them at bay. Stiles yanked a grenade from his belt and threw, watching it land in front of a horse. Sickeningly, the horse reared up, riding falling off and then they were in pieces, blood everywhere. Stiles would have to remind himself to throw up later.

The line of men were advancing, too close. If they kept them at at least 40 yards away, they'd be safe. It helped that Scott could throw nearly 70 yards. The dark boy beside him was doing pretty good himself, throwing grenades with both hands. Stiles however, couldn't seem to grasp his, mud making everything to slick. With a curse, he yanked at it, trying to free it form its clasp. The pin came lose. He was going to die. And he was going to kill Scott and his new friend beside him because he was so _stupid- _

The grenade was gone. The dark boy had grabbed, throwing it hard, exploding in mid-air. Stiles felt the hot air scour his skin and he wince. The dark boy looked at him then went back to shooting and throwing.

The troops were retreating. Too many were dead and wounded. It would be suicide and stupid to keep attacking. They were turning tail and running, running faster than they had when they were charging.

"Follow suit!" Stiles' comrades roared with a newfound courage and triumph, surging out of their trenches very much like rats did from sewers. Scott was gone and so was his dark friend. He watched them run, waving their bayonets in the air, whooping and cheering. It was disgusting. But if he stayed behind, he would be seen as a coward and receive less food than anyone else. And Stiles like his food.

He soon caught up with his best friend, keeping pace with him easily. They came across their first front trench. At least, that's what it had been. Now it was filled with bodies, uniforms and blood mixed. Stiles tried to keep from vomiting. He leapt over a torso and weaved around arms and legs. He tried his best not to look down.

The shock troops were disappearing, back to their side of the No-Man's Land. He felt happiness blossom in his chest. He'd lived! He had lived! He yelled loud and clear, lifting his gun high above his head. Scott grinned at him, blood covering his face and mud smeared on his neck. He grabbed Stiles and wrapped him in to a deep hug, laughing. Stiles felt a large, thicker hand on his shoulder and he saw the dark boy from before smiling at him kindly. He grinned and engulfed his newfound boy in his own hug.

They had lived.

* * *

Stiles was eating like a wolf. He shoved the stale bread into his mouth, shifting it to one cheek before repeating the process. Only when he was in dire danger of choking did he swallow. Scott had an arm wrapped around his shoulder, one hand around Stiles' forearm and the other drinking water from a cup.

Boyd, as he had come to find out the dark boy's name was, sat across from him, eating hungrily. Scott was talking aimlessly about anything and everything, filling in the space that usually Stiles filled. But Stiles just couldn't talk. He was always like this after a battle. How could he talk when had watched men blast into blood and bones and men stab another men, no thought except survival.

Night overcame the trenches. Nobody slept though. Everyone was too tense, wired up from death and blood. Men clutched their spades and guns, eyes shifting left to right. Scott quieted down, leaning heavily on Stiles. He knew that his friend was about to sleep. Boyd also looked on the verge of unconsciousness. Stiles smiled slightly. They were both just so gosh-darned cute.

He ripped off a piece of bread and popped it in his mouth, savoring in its stale taste. It was horrible, but it was better than mud and blood. Anything was better than mud and blood. Stiles saw a slight movement out of the corner of his eyes. He turned to see the same blue-eyed curly haired boy curled up into himself. His body was shaking uncontrollably.

Stiles frowned and slowly untangled himself from Scott. He grunted and mumbled, eyelashes fluttering before shutting again. Stiles moved slowly over to the boy, hands open and palms out. It was the universal sign for "I'm not a threat, please don't shoot". He placed a calming hand on his shoulder and furrowed his brow at how _skinny _he was.

The boy gasped and jerked, blue eyes wide and wet.

"Hey, hey, it's alright. It's over for now. We're safe for now." The boy was still shaking, his breath coming out in pants and gasps. "Hey, c'mere." Stiles plopped down beside him, his body aching suddenly. He wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close and petting his hair. "What's your name?"

"Isaac."

"Well, hey there Isaac. I'm Stiles, that goofball over there snoring is Scott and the fellow to the left is Boyd. Nice to meet you."

Isaac nodded against his collarbone. His shaking wasn't as bad at is was before. Stiles petted his blond curls, soothing with little hums. He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

He dreamt of a meadow of mud and flowers made from blood.

* * *

**The General - Dispatch **

**Please excuse an mistake I made. I am not a WWI expert. **


End file.
